


I'm a M*therf*cking Starboy

by middyblue (daisyblaine)



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everything's the same except David wears galaxy leggings, Crack, Episode: s03e08 Motel Review, M/M, POV Patrick Brewer, painfully earnest metaphors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-16 21:09:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29830956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daisyblaine/pseuds/middyblue
Summary: This guy walks into Ray's and rocks Patrick's world. He's over the moon. It's the love story of the Centauri.
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Comments: 21
Kudos: 77





	I'm a M*therf*cking Starboy

**Author's Note:**

> This is the single dumbest thing I have ever written. Luckily, I can blame its existence on my friends, because when I said _lol what about this_ they said _do it_.

When Ray calls his name, Patrick’s already halfway through his third cup of tea but making much less headway in finding Twyla’s mom’s boyfriend’s family a roundtrip flight to Orlando that has three full rows together available. He’s grateful for the break; those headache-inducing hours of perseverance are future-Patrick’s problem now. 

“B13,” Ray says, beaming, and gestures at the client. One look and it's like all the oxygen is sucked out of the room. 

Patrick reminds himself to breathe. 

“This is for you,” the guy — David — says, handing over the ticket, and Patrick barely manages to pull himself together in order to shake his hand like the professional he's supposed to be. 

He’s tall and dark-haired and beautiful and his legs are gorgeously endless in the pink- and purple-air-brushed leggings, excentuated by the sheen of the fabric and pattern of stars and clouds; his hands flit through the air as he talks, the silver rings on his fingers forming ever-changing constellations. Patrick only manages to have a coherent conversation with him about his incorporation papers because when David sits his legs are hidden behind the desk. 

What makes it worse is that David is _funny_. Patrick’s never met anyone as quick as he is, who can keep up with his teasing and return it with something wittier. He's never felt so drawn to someone, like their souls are made of dust from the same star, finding itself in each other. When David gets up to leave, a “Nice to meet you, David,” gets him one last look that eclipses everything else in his head. It’s an unprofessional mess of an appointment, but he doesn’t even care. It's the best day he's had since he decided to spend the next little while as a sojourner in Schitt's Creek. 

That afternoon, his phone buzzes with half a dozen rambling voicemails from David and he takes a break from the his important advanced-business-degree-dependent work — filing the hundreds of documents that Ray had saved haphazardly to the desktop into actual folders — to play them, first out of curiosity and joy and then for the legitimate business reason of filling out David's forms for him. He stares at the little globe on the desk and imagines David's words floating around above it, ungrounded and free. 

"Ciao," David's voice says at the end of the third replay of one of the voicemails. Patrick and Ray both are at the point of being able to mouth along to it, which is a little embarrassing. What's even more embarrassing is that _Ray_ is the one to call it out and tell Patrick that _he's_ the one going overboard. 

He (silently) goes over David's now-completed paperwork again and mentally rehearses how to tell him, when he calls David back, that actually Patrick's gotten the forms done and that all David needs to do is come in and sign them, without admitting that he's listened to the voicemails repeatedly. He absently spins the little globe, thinking about the guileless curve of David's knee under the pattern of stars, ignoring the way Ray randomly says, "Ciao!" under his breath to the water cooler as it gurgles. 

But David's got a great business idea underneath all the nervousness, and maybe Patrick's a little overenthusiastic but he's already found himself searching for grants that David's store — _Rose Apothecary_ — might qualify to get. It's fine. That's just... in the spirit of his job. Okay, so it's a little more than his job, but he's going above and beyond. He's just operating on a more celestial plane of existence today. 

He's entirely distracted through the rest of the afternoon's appointments — sorry, Mr. Hockley, if your cannabis operation accidentally got misclassified as a tea leaf greenhouse — until he hears a soft "Hi," and David is there, like Patrick conjured him up just by thinking about him hard enough. 

When David hands him the scribbled-over forms and self-consciously asks, “What?” Patrick doesn’t even really know what to say, so he teases. A universe of expressions flicker across David's face when Patrick mentions the voicemails, and then _Patrick's_ the one rambling, trying to play it down, trying to make it seem like he hasn't been obsessing about them all afternoon. Ray is... not helpful. 

David leaves with copies of the completed forms and a glance and a soft smile over his shoulder at Patrick, solar systems shifting over the muscles in his calves, and it almost looks like he's walking through the stars, as if he just climbed out of the sky and they're clinging to him like glitter. Patrick wonders if that's on purpose; it seems like everything about David is on purpose. It's a wonder he doesn't leave everyone around him as starstruck as Patrick is. 

Ray has to remind him three separate times to put a stamp on the paperwork that's being mailed in to the government. He should probably get his shit together and at least _try_ to stop mooning over David before he sees him again. 

He doesn't have anything solid to present to David about the grants yet, but he will. He'll see David again when his business license comes in, and he has a good feeling about this, the gentle gravitational pull he feels, the next step laid out in front of him like a guiding star. It's been a very long time since he's known what he wants and it's like David just walked in off the street and said, _Here, Patrick. This is what you're meant for_ , a big bang kicking off a whole new life. 

Throughout his last appointments of the day, his mind is half-occupied with draft fragments of a business partnership proposal. David might say no, but Patrick has to at least ask for the opportunity. He’s never been so entranced by someone, never met someone so perfectly made for him, like he was built by some god of the cosmos from a nebula, maybe even the one printed along the lines of his galactic legs. 

**Author's Note:**

> I did indeed shoehorn the five Mars Rover names into 1k of Patrick mooning (hah) over David in galaxy leggings. You're welcome, world.


End file.
